“When I offered her the second cup of tea--a real educated-looking woman she was, and she must have been used to better tea than mine boiled out of the old tea leaves the restaurant cook always let me bring home--I said to her, ‘My hands aren’t the only reason I’m not scabbing. I see too much of the miserable wages these women around here get for their sweatshop work, and I’ve done enough harm already with my pace setting, and my head so full of my poor old mother that I never thought of anybody else.’ She smiled at me and nodded her head over my old cracked cup. ‘You are a Union woman all right,’ she said. ‘You have the true spirit whether you carry a card or not. I am mighty glad to have met you after all the scabs I have talked to this day.’” The old woman repeated the words as one who solemnly recalls the great phrase which raised him into a knightly order, revealing a secret pride in her unavowed fellowship with Trades Unions, for she had vaguely known at the time of the Ten Hour trial that powerful federations of them had paid for the lawyers and had gathered the witnesses. Some dim memory of Irish ancestors, always found on the side of the weak in the unending struggle with the oppressions of the strong, may have determined her action. She may have been dominated by a subconscious suggestion “from the dust that sleeps,” a suggestion so simple, so insistent and monotonous that it had victoriously survived its original sphere of conduct. It was in keeping with the drab colored experiences of her seventy hard years that her contribution to the long struggle should have been one of inglorious flight, nevertheless she had gallantly recognized the Trades Union organizer as a comrade in a common cause. She cherished in her heart the memory of one golden moment when she had faintly heard the trumpets summon her and had made her utmost response. When the simple story of a lifetime of sacrifice to family obligations and of one supreme effort to respond to a social claim came to an end, I reflected that for more than half a century the narrator had freely given all her time, all her earnings, all her affections, and yet during the long period had developed no habit of self-pity. At a crucial moment she had been able to estimate life, not in terms of her self-immolation but in relation to a hard pressed multitude of fellow workers.